


Xenoblade Chronicles: The Most Efficient Solution

by Leviathan117



Category: Xenoblade Chronicles
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Continuation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 11:21:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13680666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leviathan117/pseuds/Leviathan117
Summary: After the collapse of Galahad Fortress and the loss of two of his most trusted leaders, Egil dispatches a team of Mechon to track down and recover the Face units and their Pilots. But an accident leaves most of them buried, only to reawaken in a world that has moved on without them.





	1. CH1: Discovery and Recovery

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! It's certainly been quite a while. For those who may not be aware, I posted this story a long, long time ago on Fanfiction.Net, and unfortunately was unable to post what was meant to be the final chapter there. Well, while I doubt anyone remembers this story, it's hopefully being revived as of now! This is the first chapter, and the next three will be direct re-uploads from FF.Net. I can definitely understand why people may be skeptical of my "validity" as TombBrain, all I can say is that you'll just have to trust me.  
> Most of the story will be told from the perspective of a group of Mechon, and Mechon obviously wouldn’t know the names of the main characters like you or I do. So I have come up with a series of names for the main heroes that the Mechon will refer to them as. These are:  
> Shulk = “The Monado Wielder”  
> Reyn = “The Shieldbearer”  
> Dunban = “The Sword Master”  
> Melia = “The Spellcaster”  
> Sharla = “The Sharpshooter”  
> Riki = “The Hammer Warrior”  
> Fiora, Mumkhar, Xord and all other Face Mechon users will be referred to as “Pilots” by the Mechon. Why? Well, since parts of the story will be from the Mechon perspective, Faces will be normality to them, and so they won’t know the backstory of every single Homs inside every single face, so they just call them Pilots to save time.  
> PS: Obviously, there are spoilers absolutely everywhere! So you have been warned!  
> Regardless, I've prattled on long enough. Hopefully you all can enjoy the story and it's long overdue conclusion!

Of all the things that the Mechon need to function, a command structure is the most important. Individual Mechon units require orders, and orders require a leader who then requires orders from further up the command structure.

So, when Galahad Fortress was attacked and two strategically valuable Face Mechon fell from Galahad Fortress and, in fact, Sword Valley entirely, the total hierarchy took a blow as they scrambled to find new leaders for the assaults on the remaining Homs Colonies, numbered 6 and 9, as well as replacements for more menial tasks. Egil, leader of Mechonis and overall commander of the Mechon, was less than pleased to find out about the loss of Metal Face, and while Nemesis Face had indeed betrayed him, he wished reclaim both Faces’ pilots, or at least the actual units they once inhabited. And so, he dispatched a team of Mechon to the Fallen Arm, the Mechonis’ original left arm, and the only place where they could’ve landed.

Unfortunately, the attackers most likely landed there too, due to the fact that they were with Nemesis Face when the lower section of the fortress fell. “You are to carry out your mission, no matter the cost.” Is what Egil had told them. Due to the location of the Fallen Arm, many Mechon units had arrived there from the raging battles in the valley above, so the Recovery Team had been issued with two special codes, the first would allow the team leader, an aptly named M65 Hunter Unit, to gain command of any wandering Mechon units and return them into service for it’s use in it’s task. The second however, was of a darker nature; it was to be used if a Pilot resisted, such was the case of Nemesis Face during the miniature siege that had occurred in the bowels of Galahad Fortress. Egil was not foolish enough to send a single Mechon to retrieve two Pilots, even if one of them was most likely deceased, and the other severely injured. So, the rest of the team was comprised of the aforementioned M65, a standard M63, a pair of M58 Tactical units and a M46 Covert Killer, which had been modified for stealth and reconnaissance missions, but lacked any ability to fight in close combat; the flaw was balanced by it’s high powered laser weapon. The Covert Killer wasn’t the only modified unit, however, as the M65 had been upgraded with an improved logic circuit, allowing it think more freely; not quite sentience, but enough to make informed decisions, enough to pick out weaknesses in the opposition and enough to exploit those weaknesses.

During their descent, the Recovery team linked to the Fallen Arm comm channels. Despite the fact that many of the Mechon present on the limb were old prototypes or damaged beyond easy self-repair, Egil believed it essential to monitor the Machina and keep them in check, even though he would never allow them to come to harm. The comm channels were alive with reports of debris falling from the Fortress itself, and that response and recovery teams were being mobilized to check for survivors or usable parts. However, the M65 cancelled most of these; it didn’t require the aid of obsolete equipment in its task… other than brief directions.

As the Recovery Team touched down on the wet sand, the M65 broadcast the orders it had received earlier to rest of the group.

-Retrieve Face Unit 00031 “Metal Face” and/or its Pilot.

-Retrieve Face Unit 00352 “Nemesis Face” and/or its Pilot.

-Eliminate The Monado Wielder if the opportunity arises.

 

The last one was going to be the difficult one.

 

Not just because of the sword itself, but the skill of the one who wields it, as they have an unfortunate reputation for destroying Mechon, so eliminating or even subduing him long enough for them to secure Nemesis’ Pilot was going to be a difficult task. But, if there was one thing that the Mechon were good at, it was efficiency. And the most efficient solution was finding Metal Face first, since the Pilot was statistically less likely to attack them. So they set off, their metallic feet crunching and squelching in the wet sand of the beach. There was plenty of Mechon debris littering the beach, from the relatively small M58s, to the gargantuan Fortress Units, all of which were unusable. To locate their target, the party of Mechon had to rely on faint signals produced by Metal Face’s distress beacon, which came through garbled and difficult to translate into coherent coordinates. However, it didn’t take them long to stumble across signs of Metal Face; there was a small column black smoke rising in the sky, and a distinct lack of the local Bionis wildlife that infected the Fallen Arm like a plague.

Soon, they came across the solemn sight of Metal Face, now a crumpled wreck of its former self. The torso section had been impaled by a large piece of Galahad Fortress; the unit itself was missing several limbs and was coated in scratches, dents and other forms of physical damage. It clearly wasn’t recoverable. It was statistically unlikely that the Pilot survived. The pair of M58 units began to pry at the chest of the Face unit on the behalf of their leader, pulling it apart and revealing the truth that the M65 had suspected all along. The Pilot was no longer functioning, that much was clear. But he hadn’t been for long, lending aid to the theory that he died a relatively slow death with aid so close, but not close enough. Blood was abundant inside; It smeared the inside of the cavity, almost like the Pilot had become an amateur artist in his final moments; it trickled down the fleshy lips of the Pilots face, pooling in the bottom of the chest and would’ve flown freely through the hole in his chest had it not been ruthlessly plugged with the sharp end of the scrap that had pinned him to the other side of his now rusting shell.

[Order Request: Metal Face be re-sealed?] One of the M58s asked.

[Standard Protocol must be enforced. Re-seal his Tomb for further preservation.]

Was the reply from the M65. Now that their first task was complete, the M65 began searching for the signal given off by Nemesis Face. The beacon is activated through hundreds of small sensors that cover the bodies of all Face units, when they detect either a large amount of damage to the outer shell, or an impact large enough to incapacitate the entire unit. Something was off however. The beacon wasn’t active, which left two options.

1: That the Pilot was deceased.

Or 2: That the Pilot was no longer within two metres of Nemesis Face.

The first was highly unlikely as Metal Face’s beacon had operated flawlessly, despite the fact that it was trying to save a dead man. So, the likely option was that the Pilot had either gotten out of, or was pulled from, the Face unit. The M65 considered the information it had gained from Egil, that the Monado Wielder had attempted to reach Nemesis Face before the ground fell from beneath them. The team set off in no particular direction, the M65 deciding that it’s surplus of old and disused comrades must’ve seen something in regards to the whereabouts of Nemesis Face. They were cautious, however; the Fallen Arm was largely unexplored, the only precise maps coming from grainy images taken by obsolete optics, and thus every corner, every nook and cranny could hold anything, friend or foe alike.

After what seemed like (and probably was) hours, the team was, for a lack of a better word, exhausted. Their ether supplies dwindled and their joints and servos were strained to the breaking point from overuse. It seemed like they would soon succumb to their needs and collapse, spending precious hours recharging; hours that their targets would use to slip away with the Pilot in tow. That was until the M46, which was clambering along the rusted walls that it blended onto perfectly due to its new camouflage that it’s comrades lacked, instead of the ground, signalled the team to stop which they did in perfect unison, their “muscles” clearly enjoying the brief opportunity for rest.

[Target sighted. Pilot is with Monado Wielder. There appears to be no hostilities occurring between them]

Perhaps the Pilot was a traitor, through and through, like Egil had suspected.

[What are they currently doing?] The M65 asked, if it had a voice (Or the ability to speak at all) it would’ve been filled with curiosity.

[They appear to be in deep stasis. Recharging]

Perfect. As the Monado Wielder was asleep, it would allow for the perfect moment to grab the Pilot and make a clean getaway. The Pilot was asleep too, decreasing the chances of an encounter, and permitting them to escape without an interfere-

[Warning: The Pilot is undergoing severe bodily spasms. Target is still in deep sleep. Recommend immediate intervention. Projected odds of survival without intervention: Highly unlikely]


	2. CH2: A Cunning Plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter won’t be as Mechon-focused as the first, but will still contain several segments with them in it and from their perspective, so don’t lose hope over that. (PS: I just want to say here, that the “severe bodily spasms” the M46 mentioned in the previous chapter are in fact slight twitching in the arms and legs and a shaking of the head, the cause of these will be explained in the upcoming chapter. The reason for why they were classified as “severe” is because when Mechon ‘sleep’, they are stock still, so any movement during sleep is considered severe.)

If there was one thing that didn’t happen to Fiora very often, it was nightmares. She had a few over the years, like when her beloved brother Dunban had come home from the now infamous Battle of Sword Valley barely conscious on a stretcher. That night she had a nightmare where Dunban had somehow vomited most of his organs and then promptly died as she was forced to watch by an unseen force. She was a total wreck for the better part of the following day; only Dunban’s reassurances were enough to stop her from crying herself to sleep that night.

That all changed when she was transformed into a Faced Mechon. A night where she wasn’t woken by nightmares was a rarity, one greatly appreciated whenever they stopped by. This night unfortunately decided that history needed to repeat itself and presented her with a shiny new night terror.

This time there was no Dunban to reassure her, and while her current nightmare was far less violent, it was somehow scarier than its predecessors.

Everything was pitch black, except for Fiora herself, and there was nothing around, not yet anyways. She looked around, her emerald eyes darting from place to place, looking for something, _anything,_ to fill the void. She felt a shiver go down her mechanical spine and suddenly knew: _Something’s watching me._ It was a horrid feeling, and made the colour drain from the little skin she had left.

Whatever was going on _,_ she knew she had to get out.

 _“You know you can’t, don’t you?”_ A strangely familiar voice spoke. It sounded like Shulk, but that was absurd, wasn’t it?

“W-w-what do you mean?” Fiora replied, her attempt at confidence undermined by her scared stuttering. She pulled her arms close to her chest; her weapons were gone. Her subconscious mind couldn’t allow her a chance, which would be unfair.

 _“What I mean is you know you cannot save all of them, right? No matter how hard you try-”_ She felt something brush past her back, but couldn’t force her trembling head to look.

 _“-you’ll slip up at some point!”_ With that, her legs were kicked out from under her and she hit whatever the substitute for ground was in this strange place with a thud. She tried to look at her assailant, but there was nothing to be seen, just a voice with a heavy hitting fist. Fiora, being the omnibenevolent person she was, didn’t take that last sentiment to well.

“No, you’re wrong! I’ll save every single person just to prove it!”  She yelled at nothing.

 _“Then you’ve already failed.”_ The voice was different this time, sounding more like her brother Dunban.

 _“You’ll never be with Shulk.”_ The voice was more like Reyn’s now.

_“He’ll just find someone else.”_

“No… he’ll remember me!” She was almost crying now, getting worked up over little more than a voice in her head.

_“You’ll be left behind.”_

_“That body isn’t going to last forever.”_

_“He’ll find love in someone…. Someone who isn’t you!”_

These were just a few drops in the ocean of insults and unbearable truths that were hurled at her. She rolled onto her back, clasped her hands on each side of her head and closed her eyes, wanting it all to stop.

_[Warning: Th-ndergoing severe bodily sp-. Ta- deep sleep. Reco -vention. -ed odds of sur -ntion: Highly unlikely]_

That last voice was unusual. The other voices echoed and seemingly circled her like vultures; this one was different. It cut through the others, the voice sounded fake… but still so real. The sudden shock of something actually _real_ caused her to bolt upright, opening her eyes to a familiar sight.

She was back in the real world. She was breathing heavily and her eyes had trouble seeing in the darkness of the night. Shulk was somehow still asleep, after all the noise she’d made moving (Her joints produced a low whirring sound every time they shifted, any sudden movements caused them to groan.)  

One thing she _could_ see was a faint red light, high upon the rusted wall ahead of her; it was connected to a black outline that clung to the surface like a spider, a strange, four legged and possibly mechanical spider. Fiora rubbed her tired eyes, refusing to believe the Mechon had stumbled across her so quickly. When she looked again, the shadow was gone, taking the light with it.

She slowly lowered herself down again, cautious of both what awaited her in the real world, and the dream one, before drifting off to a more than welcome, but still uncomfortable, sleep.

 

However, things were not so easy for the M65, whose miniature power-source attack had almost blown their entire plan. The Pilot had looked right at the M46, and still didn’t seem to register it. Perhaps she was aware of their rescue operation and was going along with it? Still, the M65 didn’t want to take an unnecessary risk, one with little rewards if successfully achieved. Efficiency was key; there was a problem: the Mechon under it’s command were worn out and in no position to fight the Monado Wielder with more than a 1% of victory, and the efficient solution to this problem was to wait, recharge, and strike when the enemy least expected it: early morning.

As the moon passed over head, and the sun pursued it’s lunar playmate, things were quite peaceful on the Fallen Arm, the Pilot and Monado Wielder had yet to awaken and the same could be said for their mechanical Mechon advisories, who were recharging just a few metres away, around the corner of what used to be part of a hand.

In the race to decide who gained the advantage of surprise, the machines proved to be the winners, but not by much. So much so, that they gained no tactical advantage, for when the time came for them to launch their attack, their combatants were already wide awake, thus postponing the assault to a later date.

The M65 had come up with a few plans; most had been ruled out as reckless or inefficient, and those that made to the simulation phase had lost the appeal that had got them there in the first place. One involved attacking from above, but was abandoned after another group of Mechon had tried, and promptly failed. Furthermore, the Shieldbearer and Sharpshooter had arrived from another section of the arm an assisted in taking down the Mechon present, thus making the recovery of the Pilot much less likely.

 

Undeterred, the M65 had formulated a cunning plan, despite its total lack of a curled moustache. This plan was for most of the Recovery Team to “play dead”; half burying themselves and doing whatever else produced the most convincing imitation of a deactivated unit, while the M46 acted as bait, luring the opponents through it’s comrades, where they would spring up an surround them, hopefully eliminating the escorts and capturing their primary target.

The plan was not without flaws, but was the most efficient one, and so was picked. The enemy had been sitting in a shape that vaguely resembled a circle and spoke to each other, often laughing with one another, or at the Shieldbearer who served as the butt of many a joke, so the M65 presumed. The Mechon prepared themselves for the upcoming battle, their weapons sharpened and joints cleared, before settling in, like a predator waiting for its prey.

However, no plan survives first contact with the enemy, an example being when the Homs began to leave, they strode off… in the opposite direction. Already the plan was failing, so the M46 decided that drastic measures had to be taken and prepared to fire on the escapees.

It chose the Sharpshooter as its target; therefore eliminating the opponents ranged unit and increasing the M46’s chances of success by at least 37.3% and making it easier to lure the remaining hostiles. Revenge was a powerful urge, one that could be easily exploited.

 It moved its body section into position, aligned the targeting scope with the rear of the Sharpshooters central nerve unit, charged up the high powered sniper cannon, and fired. The laser struck were the head of the Sharpshooter had been before she was tackled into the sand by the Monado Wielder, and instead hit the centre of the Sheildbearer’s weapon, the force of the impact sending him toppling into the ground.

Its cover blown and its attack failed, the M46 choose to reposition itself on the other side of its slumbering allies, allowing the plan to continue. Or at least, that was its intention; which conflicted with that of the Sharpshooter, who’s years of weapon training kicked in as she pulled her rifle from her back, took aim at the fleeing Mechon and pulled the trigger. The ether round pierced the M46’s Mechon equivalent of a brain stem, and severed it’s control of it’s bodily functions, putting it into emergency lockdown before it’s body exploded, leaving only it’s legs to topple to the ground, with one jabbed into the ground during the failed escape attempt and leaving it pointed into the sky, as if to say: “Look at that cloud up there!”

Their moment of panic over, the Homs regained their composure and stood up again.

“What on Bionis was that?” Reyn yelled, evidently angry at the machine for denting his beloved driver and giving him a headache.

“It looked like a Mechon, but it didn’t seem too keen on staying to fight us.” Sharla said, her voice way too calm for someone who could’ve died mere moments ago. 

“It reminds me of something…” Fiora looked down at her feet, one hand on her hip, and the other on her chin.

“What do you mean?” Shulk asked, as inquisitive as ever.

“Yesterday, I woke up in the middle of the night… and I saw something on the wall and had a bright red light on it, but it vanished after I looked away. I thought I was seeing things… but maybe I was wrong.” She explained.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Reyn half asked, half yelled.

“Well, I...I thought it was nothing…” Fiora stuttered, feeling somewhat cornered by her friend’s miniature inquisition.

“It doesn’t matter now, that Mechon isn’t coming back any time soon.” Shulk said, always the one to calm a situation.

Sharla piped up: “Still, that Mechon probably isn’t alone… so we should get moving.”

“Yeah, I’m starting to get uneasy around here.” Fiora agreed.

So they set off, the Mechon soon forgotten, and various jokes and conversations filled the unoccupied space.

As for the rest of the Recovery Team, things were far from jovial. The M46 was supposed to awaken them to spring the trap, but a few legs and shards of metal, for obvious reasons, never woke them up. So they waited for a signal that never came. No one bothered to turn them back on; they _were_ killer robots after all. Shulk and his companions never passed through that area again, being too occupied with saving their existence from a homicidal god and his disciples.

They lay dormant, the shelter of the finger above protecting them from severe rusting, and their mere appearance protecting them from looters. They never came back online; why would they? They were just reminders of a horrid war from a past world, never to be seen again.

 

But of course, in a new world…

 

Anything is possible.


	3. CH3: Dead Man Talking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since the old "Author's note" no longer applies here, I'll just make a new one. I'm hoping by this point you'll be interested in the story so far, and that's great! I'll just quickly say that feel free to criticise this as much as you see fit, from grammar to plot holes. All of it is welcome.  
> Anyways, that'll be all. Enjoy the Chapter!

It took the dormant M65 a while to realise that something had gone quite, quite wrong.

It had been approximately seventeen hours and an unknown number of minutes since the Recovery Team had buried themselves in hopes of tricking the Pilot and her relatively squishy confederates into an ambush. Now, it seems like the Mechon were the ones who had been bamboozled, not that that was a rare occurrence.

This meant the M46 that had been dispatched was no longer functioning enough to awaken them, or had pursued the Pilot to a distance where it’s identification beacon was out of range, neither was a desirable option but both were the only ones that existed in that moment in time.

After a while of contemplating it’s predicament, the M65 detected something on it’s short range motion scanner. It seems the M46 had been successful in it’s task, either that or some of the local Bionis wildlife had wandered into the Mechon’s brief sandy resting place.

The risk of revealing themselves to something potentially harmless and revealing their position for all to see was worth the chance to capture the Pilot or perhaps one of the Machina who could lead them to the Pilot.

The M65 broadcast the attack command to the rest of the team and they burst out of their rather comfortable sand-tombs, showering their adversary in dirt, sand and other forms of mineral debris.

Much to the dismay of the M65, and the Recovery Team in general, the ambushee was nothing more than an “Antol”, a small insectoid creature native to the Bionis and a nusience to local Mechon forces. It hissed at the nearby M63 before scuttling away, it’s chitin covered legs clattering against the few metallic sections of the ground it trod upon.

The M65 took note of the wreckage of the M46, remembering it as it was, and silently acknowledging it’s sacrifice for the Mechon cause. Despite the fact that it was a machine and lacked any emotions, the M65 couldn’t help but grieve for it’s lost comrade, it _had_ been the closest thing a machine could have to a friend after all. After immortalizing it’s fallen comrade in it’s memory banks, it decided to move on.

The M65 estimated that the Pilot was long gone by now, a fact that the M65 had to accept, no matter what the implications of it were.

If the Pilot truly was gone, that left the M65 with a very inefficient conclusion. It had now become the very thing it once loathed, and yet feared.

 

Obsolete.

 

The M65 was a warrior with no war to fight, a soldier with no orders to follow and a traveller without a map, left to wander the lush wastes of the Fallen Arm, not alone but very much abandoned.

As it traversed the dull, derelict place called the Fallen Arm, the M65 began to notice that things were _very_ different to how they were before the incident occurred. Whenever it looked upwards, there was no titanic sword looming overhead, or any titanic entities at all. The Bionis and Mechonis were absent from the skyline.

As close to intrigued as a machine could be, the M65 decided that analysing the areas where the titans once stood might yield some clues pertaining to their demise. It took it several hours to navigate the island-esque appendage, but it finally finished its objective.

The reward was a sight to behold.

The upper half of the Bionis was the only part left visible; the rest was either gone or submerged under thousands of tons worth of liquid identified as “water”. The Mechonis was in no better shape, as there was only it body from just above the ‘waist’ left. The humongous corpse was kneeling in the ocean, still slightly smoking and with the remnants of the Mechonis’ superstructure jutting from the body like nails out of a hastily built coffin.

There were two other noteworthy sights: one was a small, barely noticeable in fact, glint in the great sea that did not match the light patterns of it’s neighbours, and upon further investigation, (Or zooming, whichever is preferred) the glint revealed its true identity as the very top sections of a spire, one that matched various scout’s images of the High Entia Imperial Capital, named Alcamoth. It was behind the remnants of the Bionis’ back, probably because it had tumbled from the bio-titan as it collapsed into the ocean beneath it.

Even from this distance, the M65 could detect faint mechanical signatures emanating from Alcamoth and the surrounding area, most likely Andols attempting to repair the once floating, now half sunken, city.

The other detail was far more interesting that the rusted ruins of the old Bionis Capital could ever hope to be.

There, poking out of the sea was layer upon layer of rock, earth and other minerals which served to form a large area of uninterrupted dry land. Unless this new expanse of terra firma was mounted on the back of a large animal, it didn’t appear to be a based on a part of some long dormant titan.

There were buildings clearly visible, some littering the coast, while others poked out from behind large rock formations known as “cliffs”. Far into the distance, partially obscured by mist was a ludicrously large tree, identified as “Frontier Village” by the few records the M65 had of locations on the Bionis.

The presence of the biological metropolis’ existence was impossible to explain, even by the highly advanced logical circuits of the M65. Unless the “Nopon” had discovered a tree so uncanny in it’s resemblance to its predecessor that they might as well have been one and the same, it left but one conclusion.

 

Zanza was dead, and something else had taken his place.

 

Since their initial construction, the M65, no, all Mechon, were aware of the existence of the genocidal deity known as Zanza, in part to spread the pain that Egil had felt when he built the Mechon, and partly to act as a failsafe should a Mechon become sentient and question its motives. The knowledge of Zanza, and what he would do to the innocent if they failed, was enough to keep the Mechon going, for an army following orders because they believed they held the moral high ground was a far more efficient than one simply following orders because they have to. 

The thought of a new god was deeply troubling to the M65.

It had to act, now.

 The Pilot could wait.

 

The new god had most likely taken up residence on the visible land mass, and it was statistically highly likely that they had taken all of the races of Bionis, and possibly Mechonis with them. That included soldiers.

 

The M65 was going to need an army.

 

It activated its long range scanner and searched for Mechon signatures. Since the Mechonis was clearly no longer operational, the comm channels were down and staying down until a suitable replacement arrived.

Area after area, the scans came up mostly negative. Some held one or two, and the second to last held an impressive three. After finishing, the now thoroughly disheartened M65 counted up the surviving Mechon total:

13.

Taking the M65’s current team and itself left only nine operational units. Some might have been so badly damaged that they no longer recognised friend from foe, so they left and approximate seven active Mechon. Barely enough for a platoon, let alone an army capable of taking on an unknown number of Homs, High Entia and Nopon who have the possible support of the Machina.

The M65 calculated that it had less than a 1% chance of staging a successful campaign against the New God.

Still, the M65 liked the idea of having all of the Mechon left on the Fallen Arm under one gloriously rusty banner. So, with the Pilot left in the back of its memory banks, the M65 began is journey to rally the troops.

 

The first few days had been a mixed package however. On the first, almost nothing of substance happen before they ran out of power for the day, the second was eventful, but not in a way that benefited anyone, Mechon or otherwise.

The former Recovery Team had stumbled across an Antol nest, searching for a signature of one of their lost comrades, and the Antols did not react well to intruders, especially those of a mechanical heritage. Seven Antols clattered their way over to the Mechon before lunging at the machines. The M63 caught one mid leap and squeezed it until its skeleton caved in, killing it instantly, before throwing the crushed corpse aside. Two Antols converged on a single M58, snapping their jaws together before charging. The M58 dodged one charging insect, allowing it to collide with the rusty wall, while slamming its combat pincer down on the second. The metal pierced the chitin of the smaller bug’s head, splattering the surroundings with its blood, and later sections of its brain as the M58 dislodged its blood soaked pincer from the dead animal. The other M58, with the help of the recently disengaged M63, dispatched three other Antols, one crushed, one impaled and the other dismembered, leaving them with bloody weapons. The Antol that had hit the wall previously had rounded on the M65, joining its ally in battle.

The M65 swung its weapon at its original combatant, knocking to the ground with a thud, and a crack of a broken exoskeleton, before it opened the weapon and grabbed the injured insect and threw in the air before catching it, crushing it, and taking the ether from its body.

The last Antol, seeing how the tide had turned, turned tail and ran as fast as it’s legs could carry it in a futile attempt at escape. The M65, who had just thrown the corpse of an Antol, turned towards the escapee and fired one of the missiles from its left arm, leaving a trail of smoke behind as it went. The projectile collided with the rear end of the Antol and detonated, sending chunks of flesh and chitin flying through the air, with only a smoking crater left where it had stood.

The sound of the explosion had drawn out one the M65’s brethren, an old M87 prototype, and lead it towards the team. The M65 was relieved when the code worked, and the M87 joined it’s ranks, leaving them with a little time before recharging for the night.

The third day played out much like the first, leading the Mechon in one, large circle before they ended up at the site of the battle that occurred the previous day. When it checked the scanner again, the number of active Mechon had dwindled from 13 to 9, leaving the M65 to post the M87 as an overnight watchman for the slightly paranoid M65 as they recharged for the following day.

Day four: the day where the M65 decided to find it’s four remaining troops, or die trying.

They set out, leaving the beach and venturing inland, encountering various species of animals that scattered at the sight of the Mechon advance. Then the Mechon came across another of their own kind, another old M87, but this one was anything but passive. It swung wildly, striking a tree it had mistaken for an enemy before noticing it’s kin, even though it didn’t see them that way.

It surged forwards, swinging it’s weapon so slowly that all the M65 had to do was take a step backwards to dodge it. The code didn’t work on this one, it’s logic circuits were too degraded and the weather had done it no favours. Though it didn’t like the fact that it would have to deactivate one of its own, it reasoned that the M87’s former self would have wanted to be put out of it’s misery if it knew that this is how it would spend it’s final days.

With ever so slight hesitance, the M65 ordered the M63 to eliminate it’s senior quickly and efficiently. The M63 raised its weapon before it seized the exposed “face” of the old M87 and yanked backwards, tearing the optical unit out along with the rest of it’s inner components out with it.

The tortured M87 let out a final mechanical groan before it ceased to function, silently thanking it’s rescuers in its final moment of clarity.

Despite the fact that it had just ordered it’s death, the M65 honoured it’s ancestor by placing the removed optic back into position before it left, casting one last mechanical glance at the most recent casualty of a war that ended days before.

After that incident, the Mechon came across another M87, along with a larger M85 Meteor Artillery, which were under attack by a group of nine heavily armed Homs and three High Entia equipped with armour consistent with that of an Imperial Guardsman. They moved to fast for either machine’s slow reflexes, taunting it with the possibility of victory, and laughing every time they missed.

 

They weren’t laughing for long afterwards.

 

The M65 broadcast an attack and secure order, before leading the charge to save some of it’s last comrades. The mixture of Homs and High Entia had been too shocked by the sudden assault that they put up little resistance, each one succumbing to a blow from the machines. Two tried to run, one firing backwards with his rifle, and the other talking into a crude looking communications device. The one firing was soon hit in the back with shot from the M87 he had been attacking, and the other stopped to help his friend, before resuming talking.

“We are under attack, I repeat: we are under attack! They came out of nowhere! Send hel-” He never got a chance to finish as the M85 impaled him through the chest, splattering his now dead companion in red blood. He let out a scream that would’ve made blood run cold, if those around him actually had any.

The M65 issued the code to the second M87 and the M85, and they fell into step behind their new leader as they departed, leaving a field of corpses behind as a warning, an as proof of their triumph.

 

 With the recovery of the M87 and the M85, that left one signal left, and it was the anomalous one. During the whole search, this one had never moved. When the M65 checked it’s scanner before recharging, there would be signals near the beach of Digit 5, and after it was brimming with energy in the following day, the signals have changed their position, coming from the abandoned Machina village, or Digit 2 or any number of locations.

Except this one.

And the M65 knew who it belonged to.

 

Metal Face.

 

After they first visited their former commander, they had never deactivated the beacon the Face Unit was broadcasting, citing finding Nemesis’ Pilot first as the more efficient solution.

It took them less than an hour to relocate the mangled machine in all it’s solemn glory.  The first time they opened the casket that was the chest, it was covered in fresh blood and red lights flashed from every corner of the battlesuit. Now, the blood had dried, forming dull rivers that had once run freely from now old wounds and culminating in patches of orange rust in the lower regions of the once proud Mechon.

Little was left of the Pilot himself, only the mechanical body remained as a testament to his existence. All of the exposed facial flesh had rotted away, probably due to it being some of the only organic matter left, leaving behind a slack-jawed skull with empty eye sockets and surprisingly well maintained teeth.

And of the blaring lights? Only one remained; a strange occurrence in enough of itself. The light’s source was, in fact, a data chip, but not just any data chip. It was the audio logs, and the flashing light took on a whole new meaning. The light meant there was a new message, one which was recovered by a curious M58, who then handed it to its leader, the M65.

In the data banks of the M65, the message’s title described it as one to be delivered to a “Dunban”, a name that the M65 recognised to be the true name of the Swordmaster. With undivided attention, the M65 let the message play.

It began silence, presumably the Pilot composing himself for his soon to be last words.  Then, the dead man spoke:

 _“How’s it going, Dunban?”_ Even through the static in the recording, the malice was clear, though the M65 could tell that it was forced, perhaps a subtle innuendo not meant to be understood by a machine.

The Pilot continued:

 _“If your hearin’ this, that means I’ve finally kicked the bucket, something you’re probably over the moon about!”_ He tried to laugh, but it ended in a series of small coughs.

 _“I know I don’t have much time left, but I want to say one last thing to you, your sister, the kid Shulk and that stuck up High Entia princess!”_ His tone was mocking, however forced it might be. He finished with an array of violent coughs, resulting in the sound of something wet hitting something metallic.

 _“I’m sorry”_ His tone shifted to one of pure, genuine regret, which the M65 noted as an acknowledgement of guilt.

 _“Now, I know it won’t mean anything you lot… but I’m still sayin’ it. I know you’ll never forgive me, but I want to understand why I did what I did, even though it’ll never be enough.”_ He was interrupted by a loud gasp of pain.

 _“All my life, I was always the guy that everyone took one look at and then forgot.”_ He paused, not because of any medical issues, but simply because he wanted to, or so it seemed.

 _“When my parents died, my dad told me that I could be the hero that everyone would love… last thing he told me actually.”_ A small chuckle finished the sentence, one his body allowed.

 _“I tried so hard to be what my dad said I could, but it was never enough. You were always there to take all the glory and be the crowd favourite, and all I got was to be pushed away as the guy no one talked to. And when you took that bloody Monado… well… I knew I had to have it if I was going to be the hero who got all the praise like you did.”_ Another set of coughing and splattering.

 _“I let myself be taken over by my own rage, and look where that got me. I know you’ll never accept my apology, after what I did to your sister, Fiora… was it? And that princess, if she’ll ever listen to this, I’m sorry about killing your dad… I thought no one cared about ‘im”_ His voice lowered to a mutter.

_“Guess I just thought he was me.”_

He let out a loud groan of pain, followed by yet more coughs.

 _“Well, looks like this is it… I’ll see ya later… Dunban…”_ His voice strained as he uttered his last words, which were followed by and long sigh; his last breath. He said the last word with utmost respect, almost admiration.

With a message to deliver, the M65 had completed it’s objective. It looked through it’s objective log one last time.

 ~~-Retrieve Face Unit 00031 “Metal Face” and/or its Pilot.~~ [COMPLETE]

 ~~-Eliminate The Monado Wielder if the opportunity arises.~~ [CANCELLED-OVERDIDDEN BY NEW TASK]

-Deliver message sent by Face Unit 00031 [TERMINATED] “Metal Face” to Swordmaster “Dunban” [DELAYED]

And at the very bottom, was one last objective.

~~-Retrieve Face Unit 00352 “Nemesis Face” and/or its Pilot. [CANCELLED]~~

The M65 removed the ‘cancelled’ sign from the objective and replaced it with an updated version, one that changed everything the M65 had known for the past few days.

It meant the start of a war.

In just two short words.

[IN PROGESS]


	4. CH4; A lot of Catching Up to Do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter will be similar to Chapter 2, where it will begin with the more familiar main cast before transitioning back to the Mechon, but with a longer section dedicated to the primary protagonists of Xenoblade Chronicles.   
> Also of note, this chapter will contain a large section, approximately half a year, of nothing particularly interesting happening to the Mechon, so don’t be surprised if they seem more worn down than before when they appear after that certain point.

_“We are under attack, I repeat: we are under attack! They came out of nowhere! Send hel-”_

The communication ended with a blood-chilling scream before it was terminated, and before the soldier could finish relaying his message to a group of now stunned Homs and High Entia.

The Hero Dunban stood, his muscles tensed; whether it was out of fear or anger, either option was not particularly pleasing. The Empress Melia’s knees quivered slightly had her spine had become a rod of pure ice, spurred on by the ear-splitting scream which she would add to her still growing list of things she would never forget.  The guards that flanked her flinched in perfect synchronisation as their helmet filters failed to block out the unfortunate Homs’ last vocalisation.

The Ex-god Shulk's jaw had gone slack, hanging open with shock. Despite the fact that it had been a good minute or so since the offending sound had been received by his eardrums, he could still hear it so clearly that, for a few seconds at least, he believed it was still going, before rationality settled back in.

"Soldier? Report: What's happening? Soldier!  _Answer me!"_ The pink-moustached Defence Force colonel Vangarre yelled into his comm link, the metaphorical twin to the one owned by a now certainly dead soldier.  He slammed his fist on the table, causing Melia to jump, snapping her out of her dark thoughtsabout the three awkward conversations she would need to have with the families of the Imperial Guardsmen accompanying the Anti-Mechon team sent to the Fallen Arm.

"Send out a team to the Fallen Arm! I want to know what happened to those men!" Vangarre shouted at the nearest soldier, who gave a shaky salute before replying with a nervous: "Yes sir!" as Vangarre stormed out of the command centre.

Melia, after composing herself, decided to speak up. 

"I shall accompany this team." She said, her voice radiating with a confidence and serenity she  _certainly_ didn't feel.

One of the Guardsmen behind moved his helmeted head to her ear.

"Your Highness, are you certain? If there are Mechon, surely it will be too dangerou-." He was cut off.

"No. Our brethren have been slain, and it is our duty to recover their remains, so that their families may grieve and see their brothers and fathers one last time." She spoke, trying to sound serious, even though she had to tilt her head quite significantly backwards in order to see the face of her protector.

The Guardsman knew better than to argue with royalty, especially _this_ member of royalty so he gave up trying to reason with her.

"I'll go too." Shulk said, turning towards Melia. "It may be a replica, but my Monado should cut through Mechon easily."

Dunban shifted, loosening his now aching muscles, and spoke: "I'll tag along. He may have been a backstabbing traitor, but the Anti-Mechon glaive Dickson made may come in handy." Everyone shuddered at the mention of Zanza's dead disciple , Shulk in particular. 

Melia nodded: "It is settled then. We shall accompany this team to the Fallen Arm. Any who disagree, raise your voices now."

The room was silent.

"Very well." She turned to the soldier whom earlier served as Vangarre's verbal punching bag.

"How soon can we depart?" She tried to sound comforting as she strongly disagreed with the colonels "morale boosting" methods.

Looking slightly less pale, the soldier replied with: "In an hour or so, we'll need to assemble the men, ask for volunteers and so on. After that it'll be up to you...Your Highness." It was blatantly obvious that he tacked on that last bit, but Melia let it slide an nodded with a smile. It was a nice ego booster to have everyone bow to you, even though she'd never admit it.

"I believe our work here is done, and so I shall take my leave. Goodbye." With that, she turned and walked out the command centre, trailing her gaurds behind her. 

Dunban sighed inwardly. This week had just not been going his way. It had begun, somewhat poetically, on the day of Zanza's defeat, a day he'd never shake from his memory. The next two were hectic, from him trying to organise reconstruction and repairs of Colony 6, to comforting Melia, who had only now realised the full extent of the damage Zanza's war had on both her and her people.

When Zanza, and by extent the Bionis, died, one of three things happened to the uncountable numbers of Telethia that roamed the world. 

Option A: The Telethia would explode, sending raw ether in all directions. 

Option B: The Telethia, if it was recently a High Entia, would be returned to it's former state, albeit with severe mental trauma. This was easily the rarest option. 

Option C: The Telethia would remain unharmed and free to roam the new world, doing as it pleased. This was both the most troublesome outcome, and the most common.

Even though she wanted  _all_ her people to live, and to find a cure for the Telethia, Melia knew that many of them would have to be terminated to protect those High Entia who remained. 

The final problem plaguing Dunban's mind was by far the most important. The day before, Fiora had entered the ancient High Entia chamber that would, in theory, restore her old Homs body. After a long and heartfelt goodbye from her to Shulk, Dunban, Reyn and everyone else, including the new friends she'd made, Fiora entered the chamber with a neatly folded pile of her old clothes and a note courtesy of Melia, who while unable to attend wished her the best regardless. She was tobe in there for 6 months, possibly more, leaving everyone else on the edges of their seats, wondering if their friend, sister and quite possibly  _lover_ would ever return.

The whole reason there was an Anti-Mechon force was because of the Telethia; they scattered all across the New World, and the residents were none too pleased about it. There were sightings and encounters everywhere, ranging from the temporary High Entia refugee camp, to Colony 9 and Makna Forest. While the Homs, High Entia, Nopon and Machina were doing well against the Telethia on the mainland, the sentiment failed to apply itself to the Fallen Arm; it now served as a makeshift safe haven for the Telethia smart enough to go there.

They knew that if the Mechon present never saw them for an extended period of time, they would not bother with them, allowing the Telethia to use them as a mechanical screen to use against their Hunters.

Thus, the Anti-Mechon Task Force was born...again... to eradicate all remaining Mechon on the Fallen Arm and make way for the Telethia Hunting Party. Things had been going well at first. They snuck up on a small group of Mechon as they settled in for a night's worth of repair and recharge, swiftly destroying them with no survivors. 

Then, they found some unsettling signs.

A group of Antols, all varying in the degrees of the of the grotesque wounds they suffered, some being piles of scarred flesh and broken bones, others being no more than smouldering craters. Another, more saddening sign was the rusted remains of a Mechon, clearly destroyed by it's peers, whether out of mutiny or mercy...the answer was not transparent, nor was it comforting.

They happened across another, more active group of Mechon and engaged in combat, before being murdered by something, presumably more Mechon, or so the reports go.

The toughest part of the story was the inescapable fate of the leading soldier, a young man by the name of Galvin Russ, one of Fiora's newest friends. Having to hear such a familiar voice, one you've heard many times talking or laughing scream in utter agony and terror, however brief it was, was not something Dunban took lightly. He played off his anger with his usual suave demeanor, while secretly festering with is hatred, as he always did. 

Now, he wanted justice for Galvin.

He and the Mechon had a lot of catching up to do.

The next hour was one of quick communiques, rushed volunteer meetings and half enthusiastic speeches to half empty rooms of beleaguered soldiers. When the time finally came, Melia found herself suddenly feeling anxious, knowing that if she went, there was no 100% guarantee that everyone would make it back on their feet, and not in a wooden box. 

As Meila and her bodyguards arrived at the buzzing Military District of Colony 9, she saw two transports, both Homs in orogin but with oversized Machina engines added to the sides. Neither looked like they would provide a comfortable ride, so she simply entered the nearest one and sat down.

After a few moments, she was joined by Dunban, Shulk and a Homs officer whose name escaped her. They were already talking as they stepped insode, closing the door afterwards. She could feel the ship shake as the engines hummed to life outside. Intrigued, Melia turned her attention to the conversation Dunban was having with the Homs officer. 

"-certain they are there?" Dunban asked.

"Yes sir, based on the last transmission from the team and their last reports, we're sure they're along Wreckage Beach." It made sense, finding Mechon on Wreckage Beach, but something felt off.

Surely these 'reinforcements' would've been with the main group, not off along and inland? No, this was coordinated. A returning scout party would've been obvious. Melia hadn't noticed that they had already taken off and departed until they actually arrived, the jolt of a less than smooth landing knocking her out of her thoughts.

They exited the craft and stepped onto the sand, followed closely by roughly twelve soldiers from the other ship. This place was all too familiar, as this was where she'd originally arrived on the Fallen Arm so long ago. She'd much rather forget it, though she couldn't quite explain why. After gaining their bearings, they set out on their all too solemn quest.

There was very little talk from the landing site onwards; everyone knew what they were looking for and no one wanted to be looking for it. The coordinates derived from the doomed team's transmission was precise enough to pinpoint their exact location, something they'd wish to never be forced into using again. When they inevitably came across the morbid sight of the once cocky soldiers, Melia had to put a gloved hand over her mouth to prevent her from gasping too loudly. Everyone else was no better, Dunban cleched his fist and tightened his jaw to the point where it threatened to break, while the Defence Force soldiers grew solemnly enraged by the sight. Shulk's jaw dropped.

Dunban scanned over the bodies, occasionally catching a glimpse of a face, either alien or all too familiar, until he found the one he feared to find. Galvin Russ, one hand clutching his rifle, affectionately named  _Bane_ and the other held a tattered photograph of himself, Fiora, Shulk and the rest. Next to his hand, lying in the sand was a red cased pen, or at least Dunban hoped it was red casing. 

Evidently, Galvin died slower than the rest and, unbeknownst to Dunban, against the intentions of his killer. As Dunban picked up the scrap of paper, carefully unfurling Galvin’s fingers as he did so, he noticed three characters scrawled across the picture. The first was too wobbly to make out, but looked like an _M_ … or an _N._ the second and third put together made the number _65_ , and combining the three made either _M65_ or _N65_ , presumably the former which Dunban recognized as a class of Mechon, ones usually delegated to the position of team leaders on dangerous operations.

Now Dunban had a specific target: A Mechon M65, one whose lifespan was now drastically shortened.

The removal of the bodies was surprisingly easy, most of these soldiers were from Colony 6, and were unnaturally experienced in corpse collection. They loaded them into one ship, and the living entered the other. Within minutes they were back at the Colony; a crowd gathering outside the Military District, comprised entirely of the family members of the dead soldiers.

Each was placed in a casket, the Homs soldiers in bland wood, the High Entia Imperial Guardsmen in intricate and ornate boxes, and were buried outside the Colony. The small hill containing the bodies was from then on refered to as the “Hill of Lost Heroes”. A meeting was held to decide the fate of the Fallen Arm and its inhabitants, the unanimous decision being to quarantine the island, with access only permitted to those escorted by at least three armed guards for every person.

 

Mechon, no matter how rusted and obsolete, were not to be taken lightly.

 

As the months rolled by, people forgot about the Mechon on the Fallen Arm: _“It’s not like Mechon can swim… right?”_ They were indeed unable to swim, and rust and age prevented them from flying, but not fighting. One and a half months in, a large blob appeared on the beach, with the troops sent to investigate discovering a dead, rotting Telethia carcass, with wounds similar to that of the soldiers killed six weeks prior. Maybe the Mechon were just defensive of their territory, and weren’t that bad after all?

Three months in, and a Machina remember that she had left some ‘valuable items’ behind in her home… on the Fallen Arm. So, she and three armed Homs left to find her things. They felt horribly uncomfortable during the search, and as they moved inland, they swore the shadows came alive and the walls shifted, but nothing ever appeared, at least not clearly. They fled after just ten minutes, the Machina deciding she could live on without those things she’d previously forgotten.

Five months in: a group of teenagers, drunk out of their minds from their friend’s 18th birthday, thought that taking a boat to the Fallen Arm was a totally sound idea.

 They arrived and immediately regretted their decision. There was a thick fog of darkness coating the island, strangling any light sources before they reached any decent distance. The rag-tag group found what seemed to be a group of ‘sleeping’ Mechon and as a dare, one approached the nearest one, attempting to place a bright pink novelty top hat on what could be loosely described as a head. Of course, the Mechon weren’t ignorant enough to recharge without a lookout, and this same lookout was what the young Homs encountered. It swung at them, intentionally missing. It was ordered to drive off any intruders, but never kill, and it carried out its mission successfully.

The group would later report their findings, only to be scolded for setting foot on the Fallen Arm. Despite this, the story wasn’t tarnished as a lie, and extra patrols were set up, just in case.

Six months in: Alcamoth had finally finished rising from the water and had floated over to the High Entia refugee camp, somehow without being detected due to the cover of darkness. Luckily the city was empty, and the High Entia flocked back to their homes. Now, they could finally start rebuilding, taking a burden off of Melia’s shoulders.

Another burden was lifted simultaneously, as the day where Fiora would exit the chamber had arrived, and exit she did. Wearing her old clothes, she spent the first two hours in her complete, new body with friends and family, before being whisked off by Linada for a thorough examination to ensure her body was functioning properly, which it was.

Before she left, she entrusted a piece of her old body to Shulk. It appeared to be a flat slate, with a raised circle in its core, pulsating with a red light. Now, to Shulk, it was nothing more than an interesting trinket, a gift from an old friend and new lover, but he was blissfully unaware of what Fiora had just given him, and what amount of danger he was now in.

For he was holding Fiora’s old SOS transponder, which produced a signal powerful enough to be picked up for miles, by any Mechon listening.

And unfortunately for Shulk, Mechon _were_ listening.

 

While there were celebrations across the ocean, the M65 had nothing to be happy about. It had been experiencing some very strange phenomenon recently, a feeling which Homs had a name for.

Boredom.

To be blunt, the M65 was _bored._

It had made its own little paradise, a kind of kingdom and now that it was king, it had very little to do. It wandered the abandoned Machina village, now the official Mechon Headquarters, utterly dumfounded by the fact that it _could_ get bored. It sent out scouts to every corner of the Arm, and it had been able to make two new Mechon from the collective parts it found; another M87, and a ‘new’ M56 prototype.

It had also found, and begun repairing, a Mechon Carrier; shot down during the Second Battle of Sword Valley it had learned about from the collective memory banks of all the recovered units.  If it could successfully repair the carrier, it would be able to move its campaign to the ‘mainland’, take down the new god and hopefully find out what happened to the Pilot. That was until it picked up a signal, more accurately a distress signal.

One of a Pilot. The same Pilot it was looking for, that it had been looking for a long time.

And luck was on the side of the M65 as the M63 ran towards its commander, clattering the whole way. Out of all the original Mechon the M63 had gotten the shortest end of the shortest stick, rust covering almost every surface of the once proud Mechon.

_[Status: The repairs are complete. Carrier 3121 is fully operational]_

Now, it could finally finish its objective. It had the troops to fight a god, the transportation to reach mainland and the location of the Pilot.

While it didn’t particularly want to slaughter Homs and other Bionis beings, it was a war machine; this is what it was built to do.

The M65 had a mission and it would see it through.

 

No matter the costs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are! This was the fateful endpoint I got stuck on all those months ago. Hopefully, with my newfound drive, I'll be able to finish this thing or at least continue it. The fifth chapter was in development way back when, but unfortunately was never completed. I've still got the old document, but it'll be mostly rewritten by the time it's posted, which should be relatively soon! Regardless, I'd like to thank anyone who reads this far, it really means a lot to me. And if you're one of those who read the original posting back on FF.Net, I can only hope you'll be happy to see this completely ridiculous drabble given the time of day again. 
> 
> See you next chapter!  
> -Leviathan (Or TombBrain, whichever works for you)


End file.
